


They Told Me The Devil Would Be Good Looking

by longphrases_and_commas



Series: We're still friends, right? [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad Haircuts, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Friendship, Gen, Natasha is basically the Avengers' mom, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Natasha Romanov, Swearing, implied past relationship, just let me have this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 02:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17674487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longphrases_and_commas/pseuds/longphrases_and_commas
Summary: Fear of change is often related to a negative worldview, and just as often related to a tendency toward anxiety (and of course, these two variables are often related to one another, as well). People who grow up in a home that is very negative often exhibit fear of change as adults. They were exposed to the idea that life isn’t so great no matter what path you choose, so you might as well stick to the path that you’re on. This cynical way of thinking can pervade and poison everything in life, rendering people jaded and negative. This is how people can remain paralyzed by fear of changing anything, because the change might lead to something unsafe.Bucky Barnes and Natasha Romanov are a weird match, different products of the same cruel making. Yet, it is so hard to find real friends in this world of gods and superheroes, that they don't question it. The same way Natasha doesn't question when Bucky asks her to change him.





	They Told Me The Devil Would Be Good Looking

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone and welcome to "I Have No Idea What I'm Doing".
> 
> As usual, this started with something dumb and then I couldn't just not write it otherwise I'd have to live with this weird oneshot inside my brain forever. And because I hate myself, this is again just a shit ton of dialogue that I couldn't get exactly right. (Catch me shit talking all of my fics in the opening notes 24/7.)
> 
> I've always really liked Natasha and Bucky, so it just felt like a natural place to go considering I already was putting out similar things into the world.
> 
> Without further ado (or self deprication), have these 4k words I forced myself to write.
> 
> Happy reading!!

His whole body screamed. His muscles, never out of shape anymore, felt sore. His eyes burned from the sweat dripping down his face. Several of his knuckles were cut open, the sharp pain traveling up his arm every time his fist hit the punching bag. And hit it again. And again. And again. Until all the pain blurred together and it was like he felt nothing at all. 

His head was in turmoil. He couldn’t decide if he was where he was supposed to be, or even if he was supposed to be anywhere. He should be dead. He definitely deserved it. But he knew no one would have the guts to do it. It was hard for others to look at him, that disheveled broken soldier, and feel like he was evil and deserved that punishment. Maybe he should do it himself. So many people had fallen by his hands, it seemed only fair that he too went down by his own doing. 

He knew what everyone thought of him. He knew about the conversations they had about him behind closed doors and sometimes behind no doors at all. He knew what he was. Outsider. Nuisance. Ghost story. Nightmare. Veteran. Experiment. Enemy. Weapon.  _Murderer_. 

The punching bag flew across the room, landing with a loud thud. The filling poured out of a rip in the seam like blood from a wound, and the tiny beads hit the floor in a weirdly melodic pace.  

He took deep breaths, trying to calm down his accelerated heartbeat, and swallowed hard, almost as if to get rid of the knot in his throat. 

“Steve did this so many times, Stark build a special bag just for him. You should ask him about it.” 

“How long have you been there?” he asked, without turning around to look at Natasha leaning against the doorframe. 

“You were screaming,” she stated, as an answer. 

“Sorry.” 

“It’s fine. It was Romanian, so no one would understand anyway.” 

She felt like there was no need to add that she had understood every word and that knew what he was feeling. Nat knew he wouldn’t appreciate her sympathy, instead taking it as pity, so she swallowed down the words. 

Bucky turned around. She smiled. 

“Also, everyone here has grown accustomed to screaming. It happens when you live with a bunch of traumatized, anxious heroes.” She shrugged. “Or at least what’s left of us after we take a beating.” 

Natasha stepped into the room. Even in her simple work out gear, it was hard not to look at her and feel scared. Just her walk had a certain swing to it that made him think both of the rhythmic delicacy of a dancer and the sharp precision of a killer. Bucky never thought that she looked like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She looked like a wolf in all its glory, staring down at you as it decided on whether or not to bite you. 

She laid a hand on his shoulder. There was something on her face, her expression, that made him feel like a pep talk was coming, but when she opened her mouth all she said was “Wanna spar?” 

He grabbed her wrist and bent forward, using his weight to pull her down. With astonishing reflex and balance, Nat landed on her feet and then proceeded to hit her elbow on his face. Reacting out of pure surprise, he let go of her arm and stumbled backwards, giving her the perfect opportunity to trip him up.  

“Save it for the ring, Barnes.” 

Bucky smiled. 

“I’m just really keen on getting my ass kicked.” 

She raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 

“That’s kinky.” 

He felt the laugh bubbling on his stomach and let out a loud and sudden chuckle. 

Seeing him give no signs of getting up, Natasha poked his ribs with the tip of her boot, just hard enough to bother, and complained, with a tone that made her seem like a spoiled child. 

“Come on, I only got an hour before my meeting.” 

“Ooh, Ms. Important has a meeting,” Bucky teased, sitting up. 

“Shut it,” she snapped, but failed to hide the proud smile that for a second curved her lips. 

She took the hand he had extended towards her and helped him up with a little more force than necessary. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she tightly tied her hair up and then cracked her knuckles, making a weird chill climb up his spine. 

They never  _actually_ took the ring. The whole room had matted floors to absorb impact, so it didn’t hurt that bad to get thrown into. Also, both of them knew how to take a fall like a champ. 

And from experience, they knew they needed space to fight. Their styles seemed a bit mismatched at first try, different products of the same making, but with time they ended up discovering how to better fit their personal techniques and maneuvers into something unique, fluid and comfortable for them both. It was almost performative in a way. A nice little part of routine that they cherished immensely, even if neither would admit it. 

Bucky bent slightly into a fighting stance, paying close attention to his opponent, who he knew  _didn’t have_  a fighting stance. Much of her versatility came from the fact that she could easily snap into combat without much prep. He loved sparring with Natasha. It was not only their understanding of each other’s movements—he had that with other people too and it didn’t feel the same as it did with her. Her fighting amazed him in a way no one else’s did. There was little to none upper body moves, meaning she didn’t punch unless she had to. There was a lot of kicking and choking and arm locks, a lot of dodging the other person’s blows and using that to her advantage. She had a perfectly balanced body for fighting like she did: strong, but not so much that it would make her less flexible or fast. 

Despite all of this, the time passed seeing Natasha hit the floor, again and again and again.  

After a particularly quick round, Bucky had her in a lock she often referred to as the “bear hug”—one that he had seen her get out of by throwing his body over her head with almost no effort—when she tapped his arm. He reluctantly let go. She stretched her back and neck like they hurt and took a deep breath, but she had barely started sweating. Without waiting for her to take a steadier base, Bucky launched himself at her direction. She didn’t even flinch. Faster than she had been the entire afternoon, she grabbed the fist he’d thrown at her and brought his arm to his back, bringing down his torso and giving her the perfect opening to mount on his shoulders and choke him with her thughs. He tried to fall back, but even on the ground, she did not let go. Gasping for air, he started laughing. 

“So you  _were_  holding back,” he managed to squeeze through the legs around his throat. 

With a sigh, Nat released him from the choke. 

“Sorry.” She bit the inside of her lip. “Felt like you were in need of a small victory.” 

Something in his chest ached. Weird thing to get soppy about, a friend allowing you to punch, choke and body slam them, but he knew how much she hated to lose. 

“I told you,” he said, his breath hitched, “I like getting my ass kicked.” 

“Man, the soviets  _really_  ruined you.” 

She sat up and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her legs. As she looked down at him laying on the floor, her red hair framed her face in the places where some strands escaped the ponytail. She had had a lot of different hairstyles since they met, but the fiery tone had always been a constant. Bucky liked constancy. 

“Nat?” he took in a huge gulp of air. Why did that feel so hard to ask? “Would you cut my hair?” 

The woman smirked. 

“Tired of the scruffy look you got going on? It does make you look kind of caveman-esque.” 

“It tangles like hell,” he put up a finger for her to see and started counting, “it gets in my face  _all the time_ , it clogged my drain  _twice_  since I got here and I haven’t gotten a haircut in  _seventy years_ , so maybe it’s time.” 

“Did they not assign a poor Hydra intern to cut your hair?” 

“I pity the poor soul who tried to get next to me with a pair of scissors back then.” 

He also really liked that about her. She was barely the only one who managed to bring lightheadedness into his Winter Soldier days. She had done fucked up shit too, and knew when to be ashamed of it and when to own it. Bucky had no idea of how even to begin learning how to fo that. But it was comforting knowing she'd never judge him for it. 

“Okay.” She let out a smile, soft and sincere, reserved only for that kind of moment. Those moments of trust and partnership, when it really made her feel part of a team. 

“Thanks.” 

Natasha took a deep breath. 

“Up on three?” 

“Five?” 

“Stop being so soft, Barnes. On three.” 

Bucky sighed. “One.” 

“Two.” 

“Three,” he counted, wrapping his arms around Nat’s calves and jumping up to his feet. 

Natasha let out a loud screech sound he had never heard come out of her before, flailing around as she hung upside down from his shoulders. 

“What the hell, James?” she shouted, but he could hear the laughter in her voice. “Put me down!” 

“Only if you ask nicely.” 

“You  _know_  I can still hurt you like this, right?” 

“I highly doubt that,” he said, swinging her a bit for good measure. 

Without answering, Natasha sat up on his shoulders and reached for one of her boots. Before he could say anything else, there was a knife pressed against his throat. 

“What were you saying again?” 

“That...I was very eager to let you go so you can go to your important people meeting.” 

“What? No!” She scoffed. “Fuck my meeting. Let’s go get you a haircut.” 

“Wait, now?” 

“Yeah! Come on, let’s go to my room.” 

Bucky waited. “Aren’t you going to...get down?” 

“Nah.” She hunched over to rest her chin on top of his head. “I have decided I like the view from up here.” 

“Can you at least take the knife off my throat?” 

“Oh. Yeah.” Nearly faster than he could process, Natasha hid the blade back in her boot. “Sorry.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he mumbled. “Okay, here we go. Watch your head.” 

Carrying Natasha around the compound was very similar to what Bucky imagined carrying around a small child would be like. She wouldn’t stay still, either dropping backwards to hang upside down and giggle or swaying her legs and kicking his chest in the process. 

“Stop,” she asked, pulling his ear, which felt severely unnecessary. Then added “That one,” pointing to a door in the middle of the corridor. 

“I thought your room was in the other wing.” 

“Yeah...I moved back here to be closer to the kids,” she explained, making a perfect dismount by hanging upside down, landing a handstand and kicking back her legs. 

“ _Kids?_ Plural?” 

Natasha pushed Bucky aside to press her fingertip to the digital lock. “Mostly Maximoff,” she confessed, “Even though I do help Parker when he pops up around here.” She flung the door open with a flourish and smiled. “Welcome to the Romanoff Manor.” 

Bucky entered the room, following in her footsteps, trying not to stare at everything. It looked like an awfully normal bedroom—big window looking over the woods around the terrain, bed pit against a wall, black spray-painted vanity on the opposite one, closet and bathroom off to a door on the side. But, as long as you knew where to look, there were tiny signs of Natalia Romanova. A slightly crooked ballet bar screwed to the window. An open drawer showing a peek of a neatly organized collection of butterfly knives. Five white spots of plaster covering up tiny holes in the wall. The painfully unremarkable lack of a headboard on the bed. 

“Come on, take a seat,” Natasha asked, tapping the vanity’s bench twice. 

He sat down, shuffling in the tiny seat, taking in his reflection on the mirror. Bucky supposed he didn’t look bad for almost 90, though there was a swollen red-purple ball above his eyebrow, where Steve had landed a hard blow the day before. 

Natasha swiftly closed the butterfly knives drawer, then reached for a pair of scissors from a cup entirely made out of pasta which Bucky imagined was the work of one of Barton’s children. He had never met any of them—due largely to the fact that no one was even supposed to know they existed, though he also felt like it could be because Hawkeye wasn’t his greatest fan either—but Nat spoke highly of the three of them, and sometimes showed him pictures of tiny Nathaniel that Laura had sent her. 

“I like your scissors,” he commented, nonchalantly, as she tried to untangle his hair with her fingers. Through the reflection, he saw her hide a smile. 

“Wanda gave them to me. She got tired of me using the kitchen scissors to cut my hair. Said it wasn’t ‘very hygienic.” A shrug. “She isn’t wrong.” 

“They’re very...you.” 

The twin blades were very long, the metal unreflective and nearly black, except for the cutting edge, which had a bright scarlet color. Bucky had seen Natasha fondly look at different assortments of blades before, so he knew that it had been a spot-on gift. 

“Okay,” she said, meeting his eyes on the mirror whilst holding his hair in a ponytail. “Ready?” 

“Ready.” 

Taking in a deep breath, he heard the scissors chopping off the locks of hair and closed his eyes. When Natasha let go of his hair, he felt the tickling of short strands on his ears. She laid a hand on his shoulder.  

“It’s everything alright?” 

Bucky nodded, eyes still pressed shut. “I just...Don’t know. It feels weird.” 

“You want me to stop? We can finish this another time.” 

“No. Keep going.” 

“Okay. But let me know what’s going on. It’s fine if you want to quit.” 

He shook his head, negating. She squeezed his shoulder. 

“Alright. I’ll let you know when it’s over.” 

Natasha continued cutting. He couldn’t see the hair, but he could feel it, the chunks falling on his shoulders, his hands, into the back of his shirt. It made his whole body itch, made him want to get up and leave. He felt unsafe, exposed. Weirdly, it had nothing to do with the world class assassin handling a sharp object around his head, the blades at points coming dangerously close to his ears and neck. It was the change that unsettled him the most. The idea of abandoning that feature, that part of him that had basically become a physical journal of his mental change. But he stayed in his seat, as still as possible, as the Black Widow cut away what he hoped was the last remainder of the Winter Soldier. 

“I’m just gonna get the front and we’re done. How you’re doing?” 

“Good,” he mumbled. 

“Wait a second.” Natasha spun the bench around, holding back from screaming “weeeeeee!” to see if that would make him laugh. “You can open your eyes.” 

Bucky peeked out of one eye, finding her smiley face right next to his. 

“I gotta say, I think it’s some of my best work.” 

“It looks that good?” 

“Oh, dear. It looks magnificent.” 

She blew a kiss on the tip of her fingers like an Italian chef from a cartoon. He smiled shyly. Natasha sighed. 

“Wanna tell me what’s going on? Or are you going to keep shutting me out? I thought we were past that,” she reprimanded. 

“Sorry.” Bucky rubbed his sweaty palm on his pants, noticing the metal arm mimicked the gesture by pure habit. “It seems...wrong, somehow. I want to, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. That’s why I asked you to, instead of just chopping it all in the bathroom mirror off with a combat knife.” 

Natasha’s expression softened. 

“Oh, James.” She took a deep breath. “Fuck. Okay. Scooch over.” 

“What?” 

“Scooch over.” She repeated, nudging Bucky with her hips. 

“Nat, there’s no way we’ll both fit in this bench.” 

“We’ll manage. Come on.” 

With a huff, Bucky moved to the edge of the seat, freeing a tiny section of cushion in which Natasha could fit, approximately, one fourth of her butt. Still, she sat down, pressing the side of her body against Bucky’s to try and get optimal seating space, but ultimately holding most of her weight by herself. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“There’s nothing  _wrong_  wrong. I just don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.” 

“First of all, you should have said that  _before_  I started insanely chopping off your hair,” she said, after he paused, and ruffled what was left of his hair—which, as he realized when she did it, wasn’t that much. “Secondly, there’s nothing wrong about wanting to change.” 

“What if me wanting to change means I want to move on? From all the bad, fucked shit I’ve done all this time?” 

“If that’s what you want, that’s fine. You deserve to move on, James. No one wants you to be a never-changing museum of all your sins.” 

“I fear I’ll start forgetting them if there isn’t something,  _anything_ _,_  to help me remember. There are way too many. I could easily be the devil.” 

“Then you’re the most handsome devil I’ve ever seen, that’s for sure,” she teased, jostling his leg with her own knee. 

“Well,” Bucky smirked, “I guess you haven’t looked in the mirror in a while.” 

Natasha averted get gaze. He knew compliments always startled her, mostly because she had no idea how to take one. 

“Fuck off,” she said, finally. 

Cupping Bucky's jaw, she stared him dead in the eyes. Then smiled.  

“But yeah, I can see why girls liked you.” 

“What?” 

“Come on, everyone knows you were the ultimate ladies’ man back in the forties.” It was official, Bucky was going to kill Steve the next time he saw him. “Also,  _I have eyes_ , Barnes. Not even all the scowling and the greasy hair can cover it all up.” 

“I think it’s less the scowling and the bad haircut and more the international assassin part that’s been driving people away.” 

“But you can be quite charming when you want to. Most days, you’re not murdery at all.” 

“Thanks, I’m gonna put that in my resume.” 

She sighed. “Just take the fucking compliment. God knows they don’t come often.” 

“Thanks, Nat.” He reached for her hand. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Natasha squeezed the hand he had offered—his metal hand—and even though he couldn’t exactly  _feel it_ , it was a very comforting gesture, specially coming from her. She smiled sadly. 

“There are somethings we just can’t forget. If they’re important and you want to carry them with you, you will remember them.” 

“I don’t think that’s how it works.” 

“Listen, I get it. You’ve hurt people. You’ve killed people. And don’t you think I’ll ever forget that you shot me one time. But if you don’t learn how to live with that, you’ll never do anything else.” 

A pause. 

“What do you do, then?” Bucky asked. “How do you live with that?” 

Natasha shrugged. “I try to make amends, whenever it’s possible. I try not to beat myself up too much for the things that I’ve done. And I try to do good. I know no amount of good will make up for the people I hurt and the lives I destroyed, but it helps. It definitely doesn’t solve everything, but it helps.” 

“And how’s that going for you?” 

“Well, I’m still here, aren’t I? The Avengers may be a bunch of stuck up assholes,” Natasha smiled her one true smile, staring down at the ground, and it was an incredible sight to see so up close, “but they’re my family. We may not be the most functional of families, and I think we may be going through a weird divorce situation, but we got each other’s backs. And that’s more than I ever had before.” 

Bucky was out of words. They rarely spoke about here and now, preferring to go over their—weirdly similar—memories whenever they felt like talking, sweaty and breathless splayed down on the training room floor. And even more rarely were the times when either one of them would share something on the heartfelt side, these shiny, happy bits of life that happened every now and then. 

“I’m sorry,” he started, “for causing a divorce on your family.” 

“ _Wait._  What was that? Did James Buchanan Barnes just make a goddamn joke? That’s it. The world is ending.” 

Biting down a smile, Bucky shoved Natasha off the bench. She landed with a half huff half indignant grunt, yet, when she looked up at him, her eyes still had the same loving, genuine expression as before. She kicked his shin. 

“It’s  _our_ family now, Sergeant Dumbass. Welcome aboard.” 

“I know you’re trying to make fun of me, but I actually appreciate the correct usage of my military ranking.” 

Rolling her eyes, she kicked his shin again. “Shut up or I’m getting you disinherited.” 

“I definetely wouldn’t want to be left out of the will.” 

“Well, knowing how much Tony hates you, you’re probably not getting anything either way.” 

Bucky laughed. “True.” 

“Seriously though, you can count on us whenever you need.  _All_ of us. We got you.” 

“Thanks, Nat. I’ll remember that.” 

She took a deep breath. 

“As much as I’m loving this little chat–and trust me, I am–I should probably finish your haircut.” Natasha tilted her head to the side, analyzing him in a way that didn’t make Bucky very confident in whatever she had done to his hair. “‘Cause right now you’re giving me very strong ‘can I speak to your manager?’ vibes.” 

“I...I have no idea what that means.” 

“Of course you don’t,” she murmured, rubbing her temples. “Tony asked me to entertain Parker last week and the kid spent two hours showing me his favorite memes.” 

“I don’t know what a meme is.” 

“Yeah, we don’t have time to unpack all of that.” She got off the floor with a flourish. “Give me five and I’ll be done.” 

When Natasha brought the scissors close to his scalp once again, Bucky closed his eyes. However, he didn’t feel itchy or unsettled this time. It was good change, and he was going to try his best to be welcoming of it. 

“Okay,” Natasha announced, sounding weirdly unconfident, and spun the bench back to place. “You can look.” 

Deep breath. He opened one eye and then the other, slowly raising his gaze towards the mirror. 

He looked...good. More approachable. Even younger, maybe. 

Natasha stood behind him in the reflection, slightly frowning at the short military style haircut she had given him. 

“What’s with the long face?” Bucky asked. “I thought this was, and I quote, ‘some of your best work’.” 

“Yeah...I’m thinking I could’ve gone more  _avant_ _gard_  on it. A little less...traditional.” 

“No, I like it. You did a good job.” 

She smiled. “Thanks. Glad I could help.” 

Bucky stared at the mirror, his reflection staring back at him. And he felt like his young self again. There had been a time in his life when he did good just for the sake of doing good—that’s why he had joined the army. He wanted to go back to that. He wanted to feel well again. He had thought that he needed to wash the Winter Soldier away to be able to do that. But no. The person he turned out to be was as much Winter Soldier as it was Sergeant Barnes, and he couldn’t just brush some parts of him under the carpet. He was going to become someone who he could be proud of again, emotional baggage and all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you liked it!  
> If you did, pelase leave a kudos, it makes a big difference! Also, feel free to bring anything (compliments, suggestions, critiques, spelling errors, really anything you'd like) to the comments and we can chat about it!
> 
> Lots of love!


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